


Wool and Silk

by Snowyirees



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oneshots/Drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowyirees/pseuds/Snowyirees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no judgement in Sansa's voice, only contemplation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Why do you hesitate, Jon?"  
  
It's barely more than a whisper carried through the darkened night, but The King in the North hears it as clear as day. He let's his sister's words linger heavily in the chill of the air, staring at the wood incinerating in the hearth instead. Jon knows she awaits his answer despite the way she feigns patience and runs her fingers soothingly though Ghost's white fur.    
  
 _I don't know.  
  
_ "Is there another?" Sansa ventures after a moment of silence, and Jon shakes his head before she can inquire any further, willing himself to ignore the way his mind wanders to the memory of Ygritte's  body pressed close against his side.    
  
"No."   
  
"Then _why_ , Jon?" The agitation in her voice doesn't escape him. "Why did you ask for a fortnight when time is running through our fingers like sand? We don't have the leisure to wait—"   
  
"I am aware—"  
  
"This alliance would mean—! "   
  
"Sansa—"   
  
She stops at the unconcealed pain in his voice,  her fingers untangling from Ghost's fur as the direworld lifts his head off her lap and turns to look at Jon. Ghost's eyes glow like rubies in the dark, glistering shades of orange as they reflect the flickering flames from afar. He pads over silently to Jon's side, licking his gloved hands before laying by his feet, the warmth of his body bringing Jon some comfort with its familiarity.    
  
 _I don't know_ , Jon thinks, watching a log snap in half under the weight of the fire. He can feel Sansa's gaze softening as she looks at him, a sigh escaping her lips as she turns towards him in her wooden chair. For a moment Jon thinks she is going to reach over and grasp his arm, a small unspoken truce, a promise to let this go until he decides to bring it up himself. But she laces her fingers together instead, placing her hands in her lap as she follows his gaze towards the hearth.    
  
"I've seen the way you look at her, " she whispers gently. There is no judgement in Sansa's voice, only contemplation.   
  
Of course she has noticed. Jon likes to think himself an honorable man, one who follows logic and moral over the desires that quicken the beats of his own heart. He has _learnt_ to not give in, not after the darkness and void that had enveloped him following the betrayal from those he considered his kin . He doesn't falter. He does not _allow_ himself to falter. Not in the presence of an adversary that wants his blood, much less in the presence of a beautiful woman that proclaims alliance by means of joining blood.   
  
Only Daenerys Targaryen is not just a beautiful woman and Jon is just a man. Murdered and reborn, but a man still. And while he doesn't falter, his eyes stay transfixed to her ethereal form. He might not trace the soft curves of her body like other men, or admire the swell of her breasts in the thin garments that are not made to be worn in the North, but his gaze lingers on her eyes, on the flames behind amethyst orbs.    
  
It's not her beauty that binds him, but something more. Something primal and warm and unknown. Like an invisible thread has been woven around them and is being pulled.   
  
It scares him.   
  
"We need her, Jon."   
  
Especially because The Mother of Dragons lets her eyes linger, too. Let's her eyes travel unabashedly down the leathers of his body, to his gloved hands. And up, too, up to the liquid grey of his eyes, and his mouth. Especially his mouth.    
  
It's like flint catching fire amidst a snowstorm. 


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing she sees are the stars. Little specks of diamond dust scattered on the pure black canopy of the night sky. They are the only light on a new moon's night and Daenerys can't help but wonder. The stars have always been her most welcomed companions, but were they always this bright? They look different somehow, the lines and curves they paint on the heavens are known and unknown to her heart, as if the planes before the horizon were a drape that had been dragged across the clouds and spun around.

She feels the snow before she sees it. Feels it on her naked skin. On her neck, and her back, and spread on the expanse of her thighs. It's between the pads of her fingers and her lips and it makes no sense. No sense at all. There is snow everywhere. On every inch of her and around her. Daenerys can see it through the disheveled white of her own hair when she angles her head. She feels it more, but sees it all the same in the scant light. Pure polished ivory, as if the stars had shattered above and rained down from the skies.

It's a vision. She knows. But of what? Danger, perhaps, she bemuses. She hasn't seen the North yet, has only heard stories of the ice blue winds and frozen lands. The unknown scares her, that she knows. The unknown is danger.

But... but if it's danger, then why is there such impossible warmth when there should be only unease? If it's danger then why can't she feel the frost freezing the fire that courses through her veins? Why can't she sense the slowing of her heart as the blood flows to a stop? Why—

The answer comes to her with the press of hands. Flush against her belly and the small of her back. They are large and rough and calloused and Daenerys should panic at the unfamiliarity, but instead she feels inexplicable calm. And there are lips too. Plump lips at her nape. A breath caressing the silvery tendrils at the base. It's a man. She knows. Daenerys does not know who.

But her body does.

Snow brushes against her cheek as she turns in the half circle of his arms. Eyes searching. Eyes wanting. She expects a shadow to mar the comely face she has seen so often, that she has forgotten each time she shakes awake drenched in her own sweat and with a name at the tip of her tongue. She anticipates nothing but unknown, unfulfilled want.

Now her eyes meet grey. A grey so dark it could pass for a bottomless black. It reminds her of dragonglass. And this time... and this time she knows that face, she knows the name — whispers it between them like a prayer.

 _Jon_.


End file.
